


Lifestyle

by distortedrain



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Boys In Love, Domestic Fluff, Gen, Happy Ending, M/M, POV Makkachin (Yuri!!! on Ice), Romance, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-21
Updated: 2017-04-21
Packaged: 2018-10-20 09:30:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10659750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/distortedrain/pseuds/distortedrain
Summary: Viktor and Yuuri (and Yuri) in the eyes of Makkachin.For the prompt: The story must heavily involve Makkachin; set in the original/canon universe, in which Yuuri had moved to Victor’s apartment in St. Petersburg.





	Lifestyle

**Author's Note:**

  * For [IDetestTragedy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/IDetestTragedy/gifts).



> Un-beta'd.
> 
> Disclaimer: No copyright infringement intended; all characters belong to the original creators.

Makkachin considered himself a good dog. He never bit anybody, he never peed on the floor or on clothes, and he was always a great source of comfort (both his owners frequently came to him in need of cuddling, especially the new one—Yuuri—who was particularly sensitive and took great solace in hugging Makkachin and burying his face in his fur and sobbing). And anyways, if that was evidence enough of his Good-Dog status, his humans were constantly asking him, “Who’s a good dog?” while giving him a good petting. 

So why, pray tell, had his humans not fed him yet?

He didn’t _recall_ doing anything bad enough for them to feel the need to impart this caliber of wrath on him. He hadn’t torn up any furniture, nor kept them up all night with his barking, nor tracked mud onto the floor. So why weren’t his owners in the kitchen yet? 

Mornings in the Katsuki-Nikiforov household were a usually lovely affair. It wasn’t the Katsuki-Nikiforov household quite yet, but it might as well have been. Though they were only engaged, Yuuri and Viktor acted like they were already married. They moved in perfect harmony with each other, both completely attuned to the other’s needs and routines. 

This morning in particular, Yuri Plisetsky was already slumped at the Katsuki-Nikiforov household’s kitchen table. Makkachin’s owners had slept in an hour later than they usually do, and judging by Yuri’s furiously bouncing knee and vindictive glare, the boy was not at all happy about _that_ fact.

They often had Yuri Plisetsky around their apartment. Though the grumpy teenager often claimed that it was simply because of their proximity to their rink (and that they had far better food) Makkachin knew that Yuri simply appreciated the older humans. He knew that Yuri appreciated _him_ , too. Oftentimes, when Viktor and Yuuri were out of the room, Yuri would (reluctantly at first but then more confidently) pet him between his ears or rub his belly. Yuri had once said to Makkachin, “I’m a cat person. But you’re not too bad.” Makkachin had licked his face at that, and instead of being pushed away, Yuri had simply smiled at him.

It was when Makkachin’s humans finally came into the kitchen, their movements languid with sleep, looking quite dishevelled, that both Yuri and Makkachin perked up a bit. “You’re late,” Yuri growled at them, his knee stilling. His hands curled into fist atop the table. “I had to let myself in.”

“Oh,” Viktor said thoughtfully, pressing a finger to his lips. “Did I leave the door unlocked?” 

Yuri stared at the silver-haired man hard. “How stupid are you, geezer?” he asked. “You gave me a key when Katsudon moved in!”

“Oh, yes!” Viktor smiled. “I remember now.” 

Yuri rolled his green eyes. 

Yuri had been given a key to Viktor’s—and Yuuri’s—apartment so that if the latter ever locked himself out, Yuri would always be able to come to the rescue. So far, the only one who had ever locked themselves out was Viktor.

“Where’s breakfast?” Yuri asked Yuuri—Makkachin’s unvoiced, incoherent, not-English thoughts exactly. 

“Give me five minutes,” Yuuri assured. And then he walked over to Makkachin and squatted down, threading his fingers into the dog’s curls. Yuuri muttered something in Japanese, and all any of the rest of the room’s occupants could catch was the word “Makka.” 

Yuuri rose from his haunches. From the fridge, he drew out the steamed buns that he, Viktor, and Yuri had had for lunch the day before. He heated them in the microwave and sliced them up, setting them on a plate in front of Makkachin. The dog had been wary of the food after the choking incident he had had back in Japan a few months ago. But now that Yuuri had taken to making small pieces of them, Makkachin had once again embraced them as his favourite food. 

Makkachin’s new owner gave him a small smile and a loving rub between the ears before moving on to preparing breakfast for that other grumpy—but secretly friendly—human. Makkachin’s earlier worries about going empty-stomached for the rest of the day evaporated. He dipped his head low and scooped up one steamed bun slice between his teeth.

“Why couldn’t you have just gotten yourself cereal?” Yuuri asked. 

“Don’t be stupid, Katsudon,” Yuri spat. “You cook breakfast. Everybody knows that.” 

It was true. Weekend or weekday, Yuuri could be found making breakfast, lunch, and dinner for his husband-to-be and his reluctant friend (who acted like his son). Even Yakov and Lilia, as well as some of the other members of the Russian skating team had commended Yuuri on his cooking skills. Especially on his Katsudon. Yuuri hadn’t told anybody yet, but it had become a goal for him to learn to make the Katsudon-Pirozhki, Yuri’s grandfather’s ever-so-famous and delightful fusion dish. After all, it would probably make the little blond skater hate him less (or at least ease up on the heavy acting). 

By the time Yuuri finished making the _human_ meals, Makkachin had already gobbled up his steam buns, and had even gone to the extent of licking his plate. Satisfied, he plodded over to where Yuuri sat. The Japanese man had quickly become his favourite human. Of course, he loved Viktor dearly and had known him since they were both very young, but there was just _something_ about Yuuri. He was kind and gentle, gave him nice food, put a big smile on Viktor’s face. Makkachin had gone many long years without seeing smiles like the ones that now frequented Viktor’s lips. 

Makkachin was just tall enough when sitting on his haunches to rest his floppy-eared head on Yuuri’s thigh. Yuuri’s free hand came down once again and gently wove its fingers into the poodle’s brown fur.

* * *

Though some families might perhaps bar their pet from entering the bedroom, the Katsuki-Nikiforov household did no such thing. Makkachin was always a welcome guest—perhaps guest is the wrong word; Makkachin was just as much an official occupant of the bedroom as Viktor and Yuuri were. 

Yuri, ever the brooding teenager, had set up camp in the guest room with a slammed door. His music could even be heard over the pitter-patter of Viktor’s shower as Yuuri brushed his teeth. The youngest skater habitually slept over at Viktor and Yuuri’s apartment. So habitually, that his belongings littered the place and his his clothes filled the guest room’s drawers and his favourite meals were queued up on the menu. But he still insisted that he was _not_ part of the family. He was simply there for the benefits.

Makkachin was sitting patiently on the end of the bed. It was simply part of the nighttime routine; Makkachin would curl up atop the covers and wait for Viktor and Yuuri to finish brushing their teeth and showering and changing and whatnot, and when, finally, they came to the bed, they would slip underneath their blankets, and Makkachin would lie on their feet. Yuuri in particular appreciated this occurrence; he had unusually bad circulation and that, coupled with Russia’s natural cold, oftentimes made for frozen toes. And there was nothing like a warm dog on one’s feet to cure _that_ affliction.

Viktor and Yuuri fell into bed clumsily, laughing. Makkachin walked, his paws dipping into the soft, spongy mattress. He collapsed in a great, fuzzy heap atop his human’s feet. Immediately, one of his humans’ hands came down on him. Makkachin sighed contentedly and shut his eyes, enjoying the feeling of—someone’s fingers lovingly stroking the curve of his body, his muzzle, and his head. 

Someone flicked the lamp off, and the room was dark.

* * *

Yuuri hummed deep in his throat. His body, curled into Viktor’s, was warm. His face, however, though pressed against Viktor’s smooth, taut (and bare) chest, paler than usual in the moonlight, was cool. And his feet, though curled to his stomach and tangled with viktor’s legs and covered comfortably beneath Makkachin’s warmth, were _freezing_. 

Nothing about Viktor was cold. Not his body nor his mind nor his laugh. Nor his dog. A beautiful heat spread through Yuuri’s entire being whenever he so much as brushed fingers with the other man. Only in his dreams could Yuuri have imagine that he would be _engaged_ to his childhood idol, to his adulthood crush. Viktor’s arm, the one that was cradling Yuuri’s shoulder traced arbitrary patterns on Yuuri’s upper arm, just below the cut-off of the sleeve of Yuuri’s t-shirt. Heat spread from the patters his slim fingers drew. Viktor’s lips were in Yuuri’s hair. His breath, hot and minty, tickled Yuuri’s skin. 

“What are you thinking about?” Viktor said quietly. Even the man’s _words_ were warm. 

“Nothing,” Yuuri replied, his eyes falling shut. He nuzzled his face into Viktor’s skin. 

Viktor’s chest rumbled as he chuckled. “It’s not nothing,” Viktor said kindly. 

Yuuri busied himself with feeling the softness of Makkachin’s downy curls. “I’m just. . .” 

He felt Viktor’s body twist, and the the lamp flicked back on. Yellowish light poured over the room and silhouetted Viktor’s outline. Yuuri could see Viktor’s lips curling into a bemused smile. “What’s the matter.”

“Nothing's _the matter_ ,” Yuuri said. He smiled back. “I’m just happy.”

“Oh!” Viktor huffed out a laugh. “I thought it was something bad.”

“Of course not,” Yuuri replied earnestly. 

Makkachin, as though sensing the emotions of the moment, rose from his place on the couple’s tangled calves and moved up the bad, settling heavy across their hips. It certainly made petting him more accessible, because now Makkachin had not one, not two, but _three_ hands entwined in his thick, brown fur (it would have been four but one of Viktor’s arms was still encircling Yuuri’s shoulders). 

Yuri, by some amazing coincidence, had shut off his loud, obscene music (honestly, it was quite probable that the whole their apartment building—if not the whole of Saint Petersburg, if not the whole of Russia itself—could hear Yuri’s deafening rock bands from his bedroom). Their unit, so very high from the ground, was almost deaf to the sounds of the street. The entire apartment was silent. 

One hand freed itself from Makkachin’s fur, and the light went off once more. The hand returned, and Makkachin angled his head only just long enough to give it a big slobbery lick, then set his head back down. The owner of the hand, presumably Victor, laughed quietly.

“What?” Yuuri asked, already drowsy.

Viktor pressed his lips into Yuuri’s hair. “Nothing, lyubov moya. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight.”

Makkachin shifted just slightly forwards, and a hand settled on his back.

**Author's Note:**

> This was an attempt at "heartwarming," though I'm not sure if it worked. Hopefully it did. Thank you for reading!


End file.
